Five Stages of Grief
by Sagashiteru
Summary: Sometimes, the journey itself hurts more than the destination.


**To a friend: I'm poor and broke and a million miles away, so I can't get you a present, but what I can do is write a fic that you will hopefully enjoy. Happy birthday~**

* * *

 _denial_

The thunderous applause greets him like the onslaught of a storming downpour of rain in the winter, swallowing him as the exhaustion washes over him and he leans back on the bench, panting, the tears running down his face among the sweat. He does not yet know why – has not yet pulled himself out of the performance enough to know why – but the tears flow endlessly as he takes breath after breath, gulping the air down like he's been under the waves of the ocean.

Or rather, like he's just about to be dragged below the waves of the ocean, never to surface again.

There is a dread around his heart, like a shadow, like a shroud, and it's drawing closer, ever closer, and it hurts. It hurts so bad. And he's not yet conscious enough to understand why.

Although his arms hang beside him, he still feels the ghosts of piano keys beneath his fingers. It's art. You lose yourself in it, forget your surroundings, forget your memories, forget yourself, and you're left only with your grief and regret and pain. And what a beautiful thing to be lost in. And what an unfortunate thing to be lost in. What a sad, sad thing to be lost in. Art exists where love and joy do not. Art begins where love and joy end.

He bites his lip, the applause growing louder until his vision seems to widen, like there was a curtain that allowed him to look only upon the piano that is now parting, and suddenly he's on stage, hundreds of people cheering him on, celebrating his art. How ignorant. How woeful. They know nothing about where that art comes from. Know nothing of the cost of that beauty. He remembers the notion once proposed by a wise man – beauty cannot exist without death.

Beauty…

Death…

He glances to his right, where Tsubaki and Watari…

Beauty…

Death…

Kaori…

 _Kaori_.

His teeth dig into his lip until he feels the skin break.

And suddenly the world comes back to him, and he realizes it hasn't yet been a minute since he finished playing. He sits up straighter, the crowd of observers clapping for his performance, and there is a blurriness to them that makes them seem almost unreal, faceless, hateful.

Then he realizes that blurriness is his own tears.

 _I close my eyes, the touch of your fingers_

 _Through monochrome, the memory lingers_

 _Into your hands I'm resting the pain inside me_

He places his hands on the piano, forcing himself up. His legs feel numb, his entire body lethargic, as if he's moving through water, or something is otherwise holding him back, like chains binding his limbs, rooting him to this spot, holding him _away_ from something, and with a jolt he realizes that his legs almost refuse to obey him, and it takes all the willpower in his being to even stand up, and he feels he could move mountains with the strength of will he has to exert against some underlying, omnipotent, universal force that's keeping him from her, and it feels like the sea between them is growing wider by the second. It's like the fates have decreed he shall never see her again.

Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos–

He stands up, and although the chains binding him do not give way, he grits his teeth and forces himself to move, and as he runs off that stage it's as if the entire world – the entire _universe_ – is grumbling its disapproval that he would dare try to go against fate.

–Athena, Apollo, Poseidon, Ha _des, Hera, Aphrodite–_

He bursts out the doors, leaving the crowd perplexed behind him. He thinks he spots his friends standing up to follow, but he cannot bring himself to care. What he thinks about he does not know, but it's almost as if there is a small, idealistic, childish wish in his heart that if he runs and runs and _runs and runs and keeps running_ he'll be able to outrun fate.

– _Artemis, Dionysus, Hephaestus, Ares, Zeus_ –

If he runs and runs and runs, perhaps he will fly like Hermes did, perhaps he will be able to ride the winds and arrive at her door, to see her off perhaps in time. He does not want to think about where she is going, but in his heart he knows only that she is going and that he must say goodbye. He does not know what he hopes for anymore – does not know if it's even a thing anymore – doesn't know if he should even consider it anymore, but his heart aches with the wish to look into her sparkling blue eyes once more.

– _Minerva, Neptune, Pluto, Juno, Venus_ –

And he flies. As he runs away from the hall he seems to lose himself inside a darkness that exists in his heart that he's experienced before that he cannot stand, cannot bear. He was pulled out of it before, but he knows if it returns there will be no escape this time. And that thought swallows him, bathes him, chews him up and spits him out, and it's like his eyes are closed, like he does not know where he's going, but somewhere deep inside there is a purpose, and he feels like he really is riding the waves of the wind as he moves.

– _Diana, Bacchus, Vulcan, Mars, Jupiter_ –

His eyes are unseeing, his ears unhearing, his heart thundering. He is aware of it, so much more painfully aware of it than he's ever been before, and as he flies across the ages, across the seas and the mountains and the deserts, with his heart pounding against his ribs like a blacksmith's hammer pounds against his anvil, he realizes it is time itself that's holding him away from her.

– _Amaterasu, Tsukuyomi_ –

His heart aches to see those beautiful eyes once more, one last time, to hear that beautiful voice once more, one last time, to breathe in the scent of that beautiful hair once more, one last time, to hold those beautiful hands once more, one last time, to bask in that beautiful presence once more, one last time. And it hurts, and he's never wanted anything more, never wanted anything _else_ , and his heart bleeds with longing, and it screams that he would give everything he's ever known and loved just to hear her sing _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_ in that broken English once more, in that beautiful English one last time.

 _–Izanagi, Izanami, Amenominakanushi_ –

But the dread in his heart is there, and although he does his best to ignore it, it's only growing darker and closer and stronger than ever before, and he wants to cry out, to shout, to scream his throat raw. It's as if he really is running through the ages, like he's swum through time and now there is something in his heart that knows. No matter how hard he hopes and wishes and longs, there is something inside him that just _knows_ –

– _Elohim, Essaim_ –

The hospital doors fall open before him as if all the gods that have ever been worshiped on the Earth lay the path open before him, and he runs through them without sparing a glance to the nurses who had opened it to step out. And ignoring the _knowledge in his heart that already knows that already knows oh I don't want to know I don't want to know why do I know_ he carries on in haste in haste toward the only God he's ever worshiped.

– _I implore you._

His eyes are seeing, his ears hearing, his heart still. Her face is as beautiful and wonderful and gorgeous and angelic and pristine and perfect as it's always been, and there is a small smile upon her pink lips, and her eyes are closed, and her hands are clasped upon her chest, chest whose warmth he'll never be able to feel again, hands he'll never be able to hold again, lips he'll never be able to kiss.

And he collapses, and no one approaches him. Not even her parents know what to say to him. And Tsubaki and Watari keep their distance, all of their own grief forgotten as they behold the breaking, the shattering of a man.

And he falls forward on his knees as the world seems to melt away before him until she's all he sees, and she's always all that he has seen, but this time he cannot move, cannot extend his hand to touch her because it feels like there is a tunnel between them that keeps growing and growing until the only person he's ever loved, the only reason for his life, drifts so far away he cannot see her anymore.

And his heart aches. And he thinks of riding his bike under the stars, her arms holding him from behind, her voice whispering sweet nothings. And he remembers jumping off a bridge into a river with her. And he remembers talking with her under the night sky, and he realizes he's never loved anything more.

 _And what did you have?_

 _I had you_.

And he realizes he'll never experience that again. And that breaks him. And he feels his heart freeze inside his chest. And suddenly there is no meaning to his life, because he will never see her smile again, never hear her voice, never hold her hand, never laugh with her, never bring her sweets from the bakery, never freeze in awe of the way she plays her music as if she knows her life is too fleeting to take her time with anything.

And she is so unfair. She waltzed into his life without a care in the world, plucked his heart from his chest, and made it hers, and he realizes that's why he cannot feel it inside him anymore, and the darkness swallows him until there is no light left in the world.

And he touches her face. And her warmth is fading.

And he screams his throat raw.

* * *

 _anger_

He meets her parents at the graveyard. Her family is not Buddhist, so she isn't cremated, and just as well, he thinks. It is silly – stupid, pointless, dumb – but he cannot stand the thought of the woman he loves being burned to ash. He knows it wouldn't change anything. She's still as dead either way, still as gone either way, her body still as cold either way, but inside him there is a side he almost fears, a side that would have ripped the throats out of anyone who suggested burning her.

Sometimes it almost makes him laugh, in a morbid manner, how relieved he is she wasn't cremated. It's almost as if he expects her to walk out of the grave one day, and depriving her of her body would have prevented that. But then he shakes his head bitterly, and reminds himself that the real world is not a fairy tale, and that she's very and truly gone.

He took care of the funeral along with her parents. They did not question his presence, and seamlessly involved him in the process as if they knew that despite the fact that she meant the world and everything in it to them, she still meant more to him. To him she was his better half, the other half of his soul the gods split in half and cursed and blessed him to search for for his entire life. To have the other half of your soul ripped from your grasp is the worst pain he's ever imagined, and he's glad they respect the fact that they cannot understand it.

It's rather like physical pain, he thinks. There is only a threshold of pain the human body can endure, beyond which it shuts down and goes unconscious. He feels like that. That's why, he thinks, he did not cry during the funeral, and that's why her parents didn't cry either. Tsubaki cried, Watari as well, even Seto-san, but not Kousei or her parents. He caught a flash of _fear_ in Tsubaki's eyes when she looked over to him, and if she could not fathom a pain so raw it did not even allow you to shed tears, manifesting rather as a small smile. And he supposed he understood why that smile was frightening.

That smile represents defeat, resignation, finality.

The next time he sees her parents it's at the graveyard, and they hand him an envelope, and he doesn't have to read his name on it to know who it's from and freeze in his place. A chill goes through his spine, and it's with numb fingers he grasps her letter, her final address to the world, to him. He forces himself to move, to stop standing there like there is a bolt of lightning rooting him in place, and thanks them, his voice quiet.

 _I clear my mind of this unforgiveness,_

 _All of my scars and all its traces_

 _You and me, I see_

 _A dream of blind destiny_

He's numb as he reads that letter. He's read hundreds of pieces of classical music in his life, written by the greatest minds this mode of art has ever seen, works he cannot comprehend, let alone replicate, but it's this letter than stumps him, freezes him in his tracks, takes his breath away, wrenches his heart like a knife on a chain ripping through his chest. Hundreds of books claim to be the word of one deity or another, but if he's ever read anything divine, it's this.

And she's dead.

It's with a jolt he finds droplets of water on her letter, and at first he glances upward to see whether it's raining. Then he realizes he's in his room and it doesn't rain indoors. And then he realizes he's crying, and once he starts he cannot stop, and he sinks down upon the floor, holding himself and shaking as the sobs wrack his body, and he clenches his teeth but it hurts so bad it forces his jaw open and he screams, his eyes burning, his throat raw, his heart throbbing and each beat is death.

 _And it's into your arms I'm melting_

 _And it's the first time I've ever felt like this_

But there is no sound to his scream. He screams in silence, wordlessly and soundlessly, screaming into the night for someone to hear, for someone to save him from this crippling agony, but the only person he wants to reach is already dead, _dead, DEAD._ Gone forever.

He stands up suddenly. His heart pounding against his ribs, he bursts through the door into the bathroom and stops before the mirror. Resting his hands on the sides of the sink, he stares at himself in the mirror, panting.

 _And in a flash, the stars align_

 _I search beyond the words, wanting a sign_

 _But lost inside your eyes_

 _Lies become clearer to see_

 _They tell a different story_

His eyes are red, bloodshot, and his is face is wet and flushed. His breath is ragged, and the longer he looks at his reflection the harder he realizes he's shaking. Shaking so much he doubts he could play right now – he'd hit the wrong keys. He can't live like this. He can't. There is no meaning if she's gone. He cannot live if she's gone. He cannot live without her. He cannot live. He cannot. He cannot continue.

* * *

 _bargaining_

But he does. Time heals all wounds, they say, and perhaps that is true. Because eventually the sun rises again, and eventually he leaves the house and goes to class, and laughs with his friends again, and eventually the world is filled with color again.

He graduates junior high, Watari and Tsubaki at his side, and moves onto high school. They go their separate ways after graduating junior high, Kousei pursuing music. There is nothing tethering him to Japan anymore, and so he travels. Starting in high school he travels the world, competing, performing, earning money, prestige, fame, admiration, worship.

His skill is unmatched, his talent awe-inspiring. He's known this, always, and now there is no balance to his skill, no equivalent, no companion. He alone is the most talented, the most powerful, the greatest. He alone is a god among men, who people stare at in awe wherever he goes. Whatever competition he is part of has no anticipation, no bets, no holding breath, because everyone knows just as well as he knows what the outcome will be. You do not pit men against a god and wonder who will emerge victorious.

By the time he graduates high school, he is known all over the world, and has traveled practically half of it. School is such an insignificant part of his life, with his future already secure with all the money and prestige he's made, that he barely remembers any of high school. He made a few friends, but no one he really talked to on a regular basis, and when he graduates he stops ever seeing them altogether.

He's a successful artist, so he doesn't really need to pursue any post-secondary education, but he decides to go for at least an undergrad, mostly because he can't be bothered to give it much thought. Besides, he is only going to take subjects related to music, and it couldn't hurt to know more about his art than he already does.

So he travels away, joining a university overseas. His reputation gets him in without a single problem. Most students live in res or with their parents, but he gets an apartment a ways from the university, the most expensive place he can find, just because he feels like throwing away as much money unnecessarily as he can, just for the heck of it. University is better in many ways than high school. Since it's outside Japan, there are students from all over the world in his classes.

 _You are the hand that's dealt me_

 _The tempter sealing my fate_

 _With a kiss_

Takeshi and Emi are there as well. Takeshi taunts him, asking if he's forgotten who they are again. Kousei laughs and assures him he hasn't, and that he looks forward to competing with them again, since they'd mostly been in Japan as he was touring the world as if visiting every civilized country was the most desperate article of his bucket list. They are together now, they tell him, both furiously blushing. He tells them he is honestly happy for them, and treats them to dinner as congratulations.

High school had significantly more skilled musicians than junior high, and university has exponentially more than that. He gets along well with people, most of them eager to get to know him, and so he ends up making friends early on.

He practices most of the time when he isn't in class or performing. The world is convinced he cannot get any better, but he does. He keeps getting better and better and better as if there is no limit to his talent, as if the universe will stop expanding before he runs out of talent to change into skill.

A wise man's words hang in the air – art is fueled by pain. And Kousei finds himself wholeheartedly agreeing with the concept. His talent had mostly been locked before, only seeping out a little at a time. And even so, he was better than nigh on anyone he'd ever met. After, however, the dam broke, and the talent poured out like the river that carved the Grand Canyon into the face of the Earth, gushing forward uncontained, disencumbered, sharp, powerful, and using the pain that was all he knew anymore, it was that he ascended to the level of a god. He was skilled before, but he was only as skilled as a mortal can be.

But he does take breaks from time to time. There are parties every weekend, and although he doesn't always go, it isn't unheard of to see him at one. In the beginning, he never goes, and he turns them down for several weeks until Emi and Takeshi drag him out of his luxury apartment and haul him to one on a Friday night. The next time, he doesn't refuse, and it becomes a regular thing, several times a month, until he finds he actually likes going, for the alcohol if nothing else.

Emi and Takeshi always get drunk within the first hour, first seizing whatever dance floor they can find, then disappearing into a room, not to be seen for the rest of the night. It should be at least a small surprise to see the ever-reserved Emi going all out like this, but it really isn't, and that itself seems like a greater surprise.

For him it's different. He sits at the bar for the longest time, downing drink after drink, waiting for the alcohol to kick in so he can forget. What he wants to forget he cannot say, since his life is happy and joyful and he doesn't have any regrets and he has friends and supporters surrounding him and he has all the money he could never need and not a worry in the world, but the idea of losing himself in intoxication sounds too attractive to pass up for some reason, and he keeps going back looking for it, but it's never enough to take him away from himself, and every time he has to walk back, only slightly drunk and very much aware. Aware of what, he cannot say.

Even so, he cannot stop.

He's silently sipping his drink, watching Takeshi and Emi dance, lost in his thoughts, when he's suddenly having a conversation with a girl from class. Who starts the conversation he does not know, but he realizes with slight surprise that she's interesting to listen to, and pleasant to smell and look at as she inches closer to him.

They're both slightly inebriated, both attractive and in the heat of youth, and they get along well. They talk for the longest time, and he barely registers what they even say. All he knows is he likes being in her company, likes her scent, and he does not know how it happens, but suddenly he's smelling the alcohol on her breath, and finds that he likes that too.

There is a heat inside of him, a pressure building up between his legs, and her eyes are glazed over in the same way he knows his are as well. And he moves closer to her under the cover of darkness, and they're both ready and willing and eager, but before he can so much as touch her an image of a smiling face surrounded by majestic golden hair flashes before his eyes, and suddenly he's running, running away. Takeshi and Emi look slightly surprised, but he's already past them.

He goes back home and heads straight to the bathroom, throwing everything he's drunk that night up as his eyes sting and his throat hurts, but it's not from the alcohol or the acids in his stomach. And then he's brushing his teeth. And then he's lying on his bed, holding himself, holding himself and shaking as the sobs wrack his body, and he clenches his teeth but it hurts so bad it forces his jaw open and he screams, his eyes burning, his throat raw, his heart aching.

After that, he feels like his emotions have returned once more. His smiles are real now. When he discusses upcoming recitals or competitions or tests with Emi and Takeshi, his interest and concern are real. But every time he's not dead he's dying, with her smile burned into his heart and her voice waking him up as dreams sweeter than life will ever be turn to nightmares as she crumbles away from his arms like dust and he's left staring at where she once stood, and at other times he feels like he's so detached from the world he might as well be a tetherless spirit, with no memory or emotion affecting him. What is worse, he does not know – drowning beneath the waves, or dying of thirst.

Music is all that's really left to him anymore. He is no poet, no writer – he does not know how to express himself with words, but he suspects it doesn't matter. His words are empty, insubstantial, meaningless. When he talks to Takeshi or Emi or Tsubaki or Watari or her parents, it's not that he's insincere, it's more that he's just burned out. His voice is cheerful, and to them there's no difference, and for a long time there wasn't to him either, but now he feels there is something inside that is empty, or maybe that there's nothing inside. Or perhaps it would not be correct to say music is left to him at all. Maybe music is all that is left, and he is gone.

But sometimes when it's late at night, when he's lying in a bed that's cold because he's the only person who's ever laid there, there is a small voice inside that whispers and asks him what he's doing. And it's in those times he looks up into the darkness and feels like what he lives for is to fulfill the dreams she could not achieve.

 _This night's become a wonderful haven_

 _And in my heart, it's what I've craven_

 _Addicted to this sea,_

 _I've even lost the need to breathe_

Perhaps music is all that connects him to her anymore. If that is the case, what does music itself mean to him? To an artist, their art is the reason to live. Of course, life has no inherent, objective meaning. Meaning is often subjective and always arbitrary. For some it is to know the workings of the universe, and those people are called scientists. For some it is to share the human experience and leave a tangible legacy behind, and those people are called artists.

For some it is to love, and those people are called fools.

For a while he thought he could be the second one, but he's the last one, and he cannot stop being the last one. Not like this. He has to take a step. Has to get up and move forward. Edward Elric's words come to mind – "Stand up and take a step. Move forward."

* * *

 _depression_

It would make sense to say that his university graduation is grander than his high school graduation the same way it makes sense to say gamma-ray bursts are brighter than the sun. Emi is valedictorian, and Kousei can't say he's surprised. Takeshi is beaming with pride beside him, and Kousei feels a little bit out of place as Emi takes the stage, brimming with confidence and projecting a power that makes it clear who the queen of the stage is. Emi and Takeshi announce their plans to get married in a few months that very night, and their class takes to the nearest bar to drink until the night is old in celebration.

Kousei moves back to Japan afterward. Tsubaki is the most excited to see him, leaping forward and embracing him almost before he's off the plane, burying her head in his chest and sobbing into his shirt. He smiles and pats her on the back, and she steps back, blushing and clearly embarrassed. He greets Watari, and to his surprise her parents are there as well.

Tsubaki is shy around him, blushing whenever he so much as looks at her, and his heart aches because he cannot give her what she wants. Watari is the same as always, ever carefree without a worry in the world, chatting away. Kousei is silently grateful to him for carrying the conversation and keeping the mood from growing too awkward as Tsubaki struggles with her feelings around Kousei.

He buys a house in town, walking distance from the hall, although why he does not know. He's traveled all over the world, played with musicians from the East and the West, but even after everything he's come back here, and he cannot find it in himself to wonder why.

Over the next few months he settles back in town, adjusting to adult life now that he's out of university. Even so, he's never in one place for too long, flying all over the country and the world for recitals or competitions. Sometimes he hangs out with Watari and Tsubaki, and as they spend more time together and catch up, he finds the tension melts away, and he is relieved to learn nothing has really changed, either with them individually or between the three of them. Watari is still fooling around, and Kousei doesn't see him settling down anytime soon. Tsubaki grows more comfortable in his presence until she's basically the old Tsubaki instead of the blushing, nervous mess she was when he first came back.

Still he wishes he could wonder why it doesn't feel like he's come home.

At least once or twice a week, he has dinner with her parents, seeing them more often than his own father. He suspects they almost look at him like a son, inquiring after his career and upcoming events. He finds he doesn't dislike it. She's gone, but her parents feel like the closest thing to a family he's ever experienced.

They're having dinner one night when they ask him, casually, if he's ever going to settle down with someone. He hesitates, and they press on, asking if he's seeing someone, commenting that there's never been any news concerning him being in a relationship, no scandals around him like other celebrities.

He smiles. It's a hard question to answer, so he smiles, and looks down at his food, and for a moment says nothing. Her parents notice his hesitation, and it's clear they weren't looking for an answer, and that they have something to say to him, so he says nothing and just listens.

They tell him, voices laced with concern, that he needs to move on, that he cannot keep holding onto the past forever. He listens in silence, his heart aching, as they tell him she wouldn't want him to torture himself like this, and he wants to tell them he isn't torturing himself, that moving on is easier said than done – that he's not sure he even _wants_ to do it – but he knows they mean well so he thanks them for the food and goes home.

Tsubaki begins to notice after a while. _Why don't you hang out as much as you used to_? and _Your music seems different lately_. He knows she's worried, catches those thoughtful frowns she directs at him when she thinks he isn't looking. The media begins to notice as well, and soon Japanese Pianist Arima Kousei's melancholy is the most trending topic in the classical music community. Watari comments there's going to be an anime called _The Melancholy of Arima Kousei_ , and that he really wants Kyoto Animation to do it. _Maybe they'll get this one right_ , he snickers. Kousei smiles because Watari is making a joke and he doesn't want to hurt Watari's feelings, but his smile is wry and devoid of mirth or warmth or life.

Watari notices too. _Dude,'s up witchu? You know you can talk to me, right?_ and _I'm here for you, bruh. Never forget that_. And Kousei is grateful, but it's almost comical how off Watari is, but even so, Kousei cannot laugh because what would _not_ be off, he does not even know.

Eventually, finally, Kousei notices too. He's pulling away, drawing into himself, refusing to talk to anyone for hours on end. When someone contacts him he puts on a smile and answers their questions for their sake, because they're spending their time worrying about him and he appreciates that so much. He realizes he hasn't had alcohol save an odd glass of wine here or there in so long he cannot remember, probably months, and those nights at university parties seem a lifetime away.

 _And it's straight to the sky I'm flying_

 _And it's the knowledge that you will not be there_

 _Struggling through, I'm trying_

 _To find my own escape out of this snare_

It's almost frightening what's happening to him. He can sit and do nothing for hours on end, and one day he realizes he could just get up and practice, that he needs to practice, but he finds he cannot summon the will to do it. He has no drive, no passion. Something that once consumed his life has become a burden, and he can sit at home all day without anything to do, bored out of his mind, and he finds he cannot play, despite the fact that playing would solve the boredom in an instant.

It's not like before, when there was a psychological blockade in his mind that didn't allow him to play almost at all. It is just that he can't muster up the will to do it most of the time. When he plays he plays well, and it feels good, and he can lose himself in the music, ride the waves of his art till kingdom come.

And sometimes, it's not even boring to sit at home and do nothing. Sometimes he's just sitting there, unthinking, unfeeling, and when he looks up several hours have passed, despite the fact that he didn't doze off.

He notices the changes slowly. They're subtle at first, but after a while he finds himself crying almost every day. Sitting at home at night, just watching dumb YouTube videos, and suddenly he'd burst into tears. Where that comes from he does not know, and he does not know the cause but he knows it doesn't have a trigger.

 _So take the reins and don't let go_

 _I want this pain to scar deep, for I know_

 _All our past receives healing, with memories concealing,_

 _We cry to the light of the moon_

With shaking fingers he brings the cold metal to his arm. The cold feels good against his skin as he holds it there, like a fleeting kiss under the darkness. There is darkness around him now, the only light coming from the stars through the window. Taking a breath, he presses the blade lightly into his arm, then pulls it sideways really fast.

For a moment nothing happens, and he wonders if he didn't press hard enough. But then, a second after the cold of the metal disappears, it is followed by a slice, like his skin is being split in two. And he clenches his fist because it hurts. Oh, it hurts so much, like something sharp has wedged itself in his skin and torn it open. It hurts so much.

And it hurts so good.

 _So take the reins and don't let go_

 _I want this pain to scar deep, for I know_

 _In spite of every sign, crying this night to be true_

 _The sun will rise without you_

So he does it again, and again, and again, and every time the metal slices his skin he groans, not because it's unpleasant but because it's the most delicious thing he's ever felt. The pain is so good he can almost taste it, and as the blood runs down his arm he thinks if he were standing right now, his legs would most certainly not be able to support his weight.

Before, it used to be the music that he lived for. He is a musician through and through, and he can almost imagine it is music that runs through his veins instead of blood until he cuts himself open every night and sees that it indeed is blood. He's never known anything except music, so in his art he can lose himself, transform himself, transform everything he's ever felt into music and project it out into the world, secure in the knowledge that most people are neither artistic nor smart enough to know where his art comes from, and those that are could see what he does behind closed doors by interacting with him anyway. He just cannot bring himself to care anymore.

Now, he lives for those times he spends carving morbid patterns into his skin into the wee hours of the morning. The cold blade dancing on his skin is love, it is life, it is salvation, and he finds himself licking his lips when the blade moves across his arm, and when his blood drips down his skin it looks like strands of her hair because it's at night and he cannot make the color of the blood out, and he thinks of her hair and her face and her voice and his heart hurts so bad and it feels so good.

His arms hurt when he plays, when he travels overseas wearing long-sleeves and people run into him on the plane because planes are hectic and people are always in a hurry. The pain of playing piano when his arms are throbbing and his cuts are rubbing against the fabric of his shirt is so bad it's a struggle not to cry out, and it _feels so good_. And it feels good to pretend like he isn't doing this, feels good that no one will ever know, and if they don't know it never happened. Like a wise man said, the truth is what people believe is the truth, and through the pain he realizes one thing. She's always been inside him. She's never left. That's why he cannot date another girl, cannot enjoy what he loves to do. Her death has made him who he is today.

 _So here's another kiss_

 _To tainted bliss,_

 _A toast to empty promise_

 _With virtue pretending love as our ending,_

 _We fall by the light of the moon_

Oh, how did he ever think he could heal from that? How did he ever think he could heal from _her_? Even now, a decade after she's gone, the girl he knew for a year, he cannot so much as talk to another girl without her face flashing before his eyes. He will never be able to live like this. He'll never be able to raise a family, to find happiness, to move on.

Not like this.

It cannot go on like this. He cannot go and do a recital then come home and cut himself until sleep overtakes him forever.

He has to say goodbye.

That's what life is about, he's realized, to a large extent. Learning to accept what comes your way, learning to accept the people who love you, to enjoy their company, to make memories with them, to cherish them as much as you can and love them as hard as you can while you can, and learning to say goodbye when the time comes. The hardest lesson perhaps is to say goodbye, but it is also inevitable, so he has to do it.

The fates have decreed he shall never see her again.

How morbidly amusing.

But he's done with fate. He's done with the world.

 _Fuck_ fate.

Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos, Athena, Apollo, Poseidon, Hades, Hera, Aphrodite, Artemis, Dionysus, Hephaestus, Ares, Zues, Minerva, Neptune, Pluto, Juno, Venus, Diana, Bacchus, Vulcan, Mars, Jupiter, Amaterasu, Tsukuyomi, Izanagi, Izanami, Amenominakanushi, Elohim.

 _Curse you_ –

 _Curse you all_.

* * *

 _acceptance_

The sun rises on a beautiful day today. The sky is blue, and the only clouds are wisps in the air that disappear as soon as the sun shows its face. The entire town looks peaceful today, almost as if the world itself were taking a breath of joy, of relief.

Kousei smiles as he looks out of the window. Yes, it is a beautiful day.

With a yawn he turns away. Reaching down to the nightstand he takes his phone and turns it on. The sun is only just rising, so the screen is brighter than the window, and he has to close one eye and squint with the other to see it properly.

It's 5:13 am. Most people will still be asleep. It's perfect, he thinks. He understands now that he needs to say goodbye, that there can be no moving on without it, and it's just as well that he get some space to do it on his own without people there to bother him.

Stretching, he makes his way to the bathroom and turns the light on. Immediately, he has to close his eyes because the white light is like an ocean pouring down on him and somehow only hurting his eyes. Chuckling slightly, he blinks a couple times to adjust to the light, and after a while he can at least look in the mirror well enough.

He brushes his teeth and shaves. It's slightly amusing to see how he has a small stubble when before he used to shave closely every other day so as to never have a single hair on his face. But it's easy enough to shave since it's not too long yet.

The hot water feels good against his skin, and pumping the shaving gel onto his palm is still one of the most satisfying feelings ever, perhaps even on par with playing the piano. He spreads the gel on his face slowly and deliberately and thoroughly, lathering his stubble until every black hair is bathed in white.

Then he shaves, slowly and deliberately and thoroughly, the six blades gliding gently over his face. He does one pass, two, three, shaving so closely as he does before he has to go up on stage. Then he rinses the remaining gel off with ice cold water to close his pores, and dries his face.

He takes a pea-sized drop of aftershave balm and rubs it between his palms before applying it in one thin layer on his face. Then he takes a step back to study himself in the mirror with satisfaction.

His eyes are gentle, carefree, almost joyful, and his face is smooth and unblemished. His breath is calm, and the longer he looks at his reflection the more he realizes he's ready to go out. If he played right now, he knows he'd play all the notes perfectly.

He puts on a black suit with a white shirt and black tie that he got tailored when he was in Italy last month. Pulling the suit jacket on, he turns to the mirror again. The black suit goes well with his hair, he thinks.

He tugs at the jacket to adjust it. "Today is the day I say goodbye," he says to himself, a determination settling into his heart. "Today is the day I say goodbye and move on. I have to dress well."

Pulling his dress shoes on, he leaves the house, stepping onto the pavement and taking a deep breath.

The dawn air is delicious, just the right amount of sweet and cool, and it seems to rejuvenate his lungs, and it feels like even the air is encouraging him today. He smiles, feeling lighter than he has in years, and begins to walk forward.

The sky is a darker shade of blue, but the light increases every minute. The sun is only beginning to peek over the Eastern horizon, and its white light spills into the city like milk from a jug, and as he walks it engulfs him like a hot bath, and he closes his eyes, savoring the taste of the morning upon his tongue.

He passes by the hall where they first played together, and a small smile of reminiscence plays on his lips. He remembers her shenanigans, sees the place where he first saw her playing, the very image of not caring about authority or convention. Today is the day he says goodbye, he reasons, so might as well revisit some of the memories they made together.

He passes by their school, and his gaze lingers on the rooftop, the place where she'd fallen into a bow before him, her pristine mask cracking in front of him because he was the man she loved and it was okay for her to cry before him. He smiles when he remembers how she was only all the more beautiful for it.

He walks the road where they used to ride his bike together, with her holding him from behind, exchanging stupid insults with him, and he realizes that in his twenty-four years there is nothing that's ever meant more to him than being at her side just _talking_ , and about what it did not matter.

He passes by the hospital. He recalls carrying her to the rooftop on his back, and he remembers finding her sitting on a bench there, and he remembers cradling her as she wept her heart out because for all her beauty and wonder and perfection, she was just a little girl who was afraid of dying. He shakes his head with a small smile. He'd been so naïve back then, so in awe of her that he'd never realized she was human. If he had, perhaps they could have built a working relationship together.

His makes his way to the top of the hill that overlooks the town. He has to say goodbye today. Has to say goodbye so that he can stop being held back by the past and finally, _finally_ be able to move on, finally be free. She would have wanted that too, he thinks, and smiles.

The rising sun casts its brilliant light all over the town, and for a moment he feels it take his breath away because it's so beautiful. The world is so beautiful, so _colorful_. It's April, so the cherry blossoms are in full bloom, flying through the air in the soft breeze and catching the light of the sun like gemstones suspended inside of glass, reflecting and refracting the sunlight until Kousei feels like he's looking upon a mosaic rather than a city.

And he smiles. Because the world is beautiful.

He takes a breath then, and pulls the letter out of his pocket, and for the first time in ten years he pictures her face in his mind, and he finds he remembers her perfectly, from the way her hair shines in the sunlight to the way her eyes crease when she smiles a genuine smile. And he finds that today, neither the image nor the letter make his heart ache.

He expected maybe some nervousness, but now that he's here it's not that he feels. No. Rather, among the purpose is a certain sense of peace he has never, ever felt before. Not even with her.

 _Kaori_.

Not even with Kaori. Kaori was the best thing that ever happened to him, and the times when they were just in each other's presence saying nothing were peaceful, but even then this complete and utter peace had been absent. And after she died, of course there had been no peace in his heart.

The chains around him had confused him, worried him, scared him, frightened him, _terrified_ him when he left that stage to go meet her for one last time because inside he knew her surgery was not going to be successful. Of course, she was already dead by the time he'd got there, but the chains hadn't left. Now he understands them, however. Now he knows what they are. Now he is here to free himself from them once and for all.

The chains are time, fate. He knows that now. And that fate is what dictated his parting with Kaori, and the way to free himself is to let go of these chains, to let go of the fate that has told him what he can and cannot do.

He looks up.

"I am a god among men," he says. "I am not a man. I am a god. I am God. There is no one more talented than me. No one more skilled than me. I have conquered this world. I will be remembered in the world of music for centuries to come. I am already immortal."

He lowers his head.

"No longer will the chains of any dead gods or fates bind me. It is time. It is time for me to say goodbye, and it is time for me to move on."

So he pockets the letter and looks at the town again. The sun has finished rising now, and the sky is neither grey not scarlet, but rather the light blue that signifies spring. The season of encounters. The season of new beginnings. And the season he met her. And the day the sun has dawned on today is exactly ten years from the day he first met her among the cherry blossoms. _I met the girl under full-bloomed cherry blossoms, and my fate had begun to change._ So what better time to say his goodbyes?

So he smiles, and says them. "Sayounara."

And he jumps.

* * *

 **Now that I think about it, this might be a bit too depressing to write for someone on their birthday. Sorry, heh.**

 **I wrote this in one day. The longest fic I have ever written, and I wrote it in one day. Huh.**

 **The lyrics are from Shadels (Shadowlink4321)'s cover of SID's Monokuro no Kisu. Yes. It is the opening to Black Butler.**

 **And in case it was too subtle, yes, he was losing his mind.**

 **I wrote this for my friend, but to everyone who read it:**

 **読んでくださってありがとうございます!**


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